Year 200 After the Shattering.
Midharbor, Benuar Island, Protectorate of the Kingdom of the Sea.
Midharbor was a mess—an organized mess. People from every corner of the Sea Kingdom and beyond bustled through the docks, shouting orders, unloading cargo, haggling over prices. The salty scent of the ocean mixed with the aroma of fresh fish and the smoky air from kitchens and taverns, creating a noisy, vibrant atmosphere.
A man in a dark cloak stepped off one of the ships, boots thudding against the wooden planks of the pier. His head remained low, but his eyes were sharp, absorbing everything: sailors rolling barrels of spices, merchants arguing over taxes, guards pacing with polished spears in hand.
He was tall and lean, a curved scimitar hanging from his belt. The cloak covered most of his face, but the sea breeze occasionally revealed a sharp profile and a hardened expression.
Adjusting the strap of a small pack slung over his shoulder, he moved through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances he drew. Midharbor wasn't new to him; he'd passed through many ports like it before. But this time, the purpose was different.
He approached a group of merchants unloading crates near a cart. One of them—a sun-weathered, burly man—noticed him coming.
"What do you need, traveler?" the merchant asked, still busy shifting a barrel.
"I'm looking for information about some ancient ruins," the man replied, his voice deep and calm.
The merchant raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
"Ruins, huh? Plenty of those around this island. Any in particular?"
The traveler pulled out a small scrap of paper and handed it over. On it was a rough sketch of a fallen arch covered in strange markings.
The merchant studied it for a moment, then shook his head.
"Haven't seen that around here. But if anyone's heard something, it'll be at the most popular tavern in town—The Fishspine. People there tend to talk a bit too much after a few drinks."
"Thanks." The man gave a slight nod and turned in the direction of the tavern.
The most popular tavern in town was a weathered wooden building with a sign barely hanging by a nail. Inside, the chaos was even worse. Sailors, merchants, and all kinds of shady folk filled the tables, mugs of ale clashing with plates of fish. The stench of sweat, piss, and other bodily fluids hit the traveler like a slap.
He walked up to the barkeep—an old man with a thick beard and rough hands.
"I'm looking for information about some ruins," the traveler said plainly, placing the drawing on the counter.
The barkeep eyed him with suspicion, then looked down at the paper.
"…That looks familiar," he muttered, scratching his beard. Then he smirked, eyes narrowing with mischief. "But I'm not sure I remember clearly…"
The traveler sighed and cut him off before the act dragged on. He placed two silver coins on the counter.
"Aha! Now I remember!" the barkeep exclaimed, snatching the coins with suspicious speed. "There's a village, Arico, northeast of here. Hunters talk about a spot in the nearby woods that sounds a lot like this."
"Arico?"
"Yeah. About two days on horseback. Follow the main road, then head north after crossing the river. You won't miss it."
The traveler nodded and placed another silver coin on the counter.
"Thanks for your help."
The barkeep pocketed the coin just as fast, watching the stranger disappear into the crowd.
Outside, the man headed to the outskirts of the port, where a line of horses was tied up beside a stable. A young boy greeted him with a nervous smile, clearly uneasy with the cloaked stranger.
"Looking for a horse, sir?" the boy asked, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.
"One that's fast. I need to reach Arico as soon as possible."
The boy nodded quickly and led him to a dark brown steed.
"This one's strong and quick. Won't let you down."
The man checked the horse thoroughly, then handed the boy a few coins. The boy took them with a grin.
"The road to Arico isn't always safe," he warned while tightening the saddle. "Be careful."
"I always am."
The traveler mounted with practiced ease and glanced toward the horizon.
As he rode toward the main road, the noise of Midharbor faded, replaced by the crisp scent of open fields.
His journey had begun. He had to reach those ruins. He'd been searching a long time—and something told him this time, he was close. Very close.
By the time he stopped, the sky was painted in orange hues. He'd made good progress. He found a clearing by a small stream, a quiet spot where the sound of running water filled the silence.
He dismounted, tied the horse to a nearby tree, and gathered dry branches. His eyes scanned the surroundings constantly. On roads like these, peace was often a lie.
When the fire crackled to life, its glow lit the traveler's face. Cold, sharp eyes took in every detail around him, even as he warmed his hands.
That's when he heard it—footsteps. Quiet, but unmistakable.
"Evenin', friend!" a rough voice called out, thick with fake cheer.
Two figures stepped into the firelight. One was short and stocky, his face hidden behind a messy beard. The other was taller and thinner, wearing a battered hat pulled low over his eyes. Both clutched rusted knives, poorly hidden behind their backs.
"We were hopin' to find a cozy spot to rest," the bearded one continued with a crooked grin. "Mind if we share the fire?"
The traveler didn't reply. He just watched them—eyes on the blades, reading their stances. They weren't here for warmth.
"I don't like sharing," he finally said, voice dry as the firewood.
The tall one chuckled.
"Come on now, no need to be rude. The road's long, and you've got more than enough to go around."
He took a step forward.
But before he could take another, the traveler stood.
It was a slow, deliberate motion—but the scimitar at his belt gleamed ominously in the firelight.
"Don't try something you'll regret."
The bearded man's smile faded.
"Hey, we don't want trouble. We're just bein' polite, is all."
"Not polite enough to hide your blades," the traveler replied, voice sharp as steel.
The tall one exchanged a glance with his partner. Then they lunged.
The bearded man charged first, aiming his blade for the traveler's gut. But the traveler was already moving. With a quick sidestep, he grabbed the attacker's wrist and twisted hard. The knife clattered to the ground.
The man's scream was cut short by an elbow to the jaw. He dropped like a sack of stones.
The tall one came in from the side, slashing for the traveler's throat. But the scimitar flashed up in time, parrying the blow.
"That's all you've got?" the traveler asked calmly, almost mocking.
The tall one hesitated—but didn't get the chance to recover. The scimitar spun and slashed horizontally. He dodged, but not completely. A thin red line opened on his arm. The knife slipped from his hand.
Before he could grab it again, the traveler kicked him square in the chest, sending him sprawling.
The bearded man staggered to his feet with a roar, fists swinging wildly. The traveler met him with a punch to the gut and a knee to the face. He dropped, unconscious.
The tall one tried to crawl toward his blade—but the scimitar came down, clean and fast, slicing through his chest. His body fell limp.
The traveler turned back to the bearded man and ended it with one precise downward strike.
The fire crackled quietly, indifferent to the violence. The traveler cleaned his blade with a strip of cloth taken from the fallen man's pocket.
When he turned toward the tree, the rope hung empty. The horse, spooked by the fight, had bolted into the forest.
"Perfect…" he muttered, sheathing his weapon.
He slung his pack over one shoulder and started walking into the darkness.
He didn't enjoy killing—but taking lives was nothing new to him. And he felt no pity for men like them.
"Serves them right," he thought. "They picked the wrong man."
He was tired. But he had to keep moving.
There was still a long road ahead.